


Fire-Wrought Musings

by Jateshi



Category: Final Fantasy XIV
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-03
Updated: 2020-06-03
Packaged: 2021-03-03 22:02:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 628
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24522793
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jateshi/pseuds/Jateshi
Summary: Related to Dawn Aegis Season Plot, after betrayal of once-compatriots, Ignis Regna muses on the swift infiltration that netted the Dowager and himself so much success.





	Fire-Wrought Musings

The Dowager’s response when he had told her cheerfully that he had ‘employment’ had been something he would not forget - fingers stilled as he remained bent over his whetstone, the bled-crimson eyes no longer hid behind the facade and impression that had suited for so many moons.

> _**I am curious as to this job you applied for.** _
> 
> _Your enemies need hands, dear one. We wish information. We have always preferred getting it personally. They will hire us, and we will be the spark._

Hair fell over his shoulder, braided back in the way that he had seen even his counterpart was fond of - long, the mark of ruling. Of having won.

He had avoided his copy as fastidiously as possible and after as quick an observation as he could had done everything to pattern his perception differently; it helped that he had arrived so close to the Sorcerer, so close and that the two of them had been unerringly similar in guise. And establishing himself rather quickly as bumbling had given him the time to set himself up even further, once he could find the habits to distance himself from.

There had been so many close calls, before.

Frantic research to make sure he could name the beastmen’s god of fire. Soothing words to sweet-talk the healer so that he could be a friend to a fellow new person. Calm playful humor as he had run in to the cultists while others handled them internally. Friendly banter, always friendly, and incessantly helpful - pushing to find the line where it made eyebrows go up until he could safely help in quiet ways, endearingly, with as little remark other than sighs or acceptance.

When he had picked his goals for infiltration they had been precisely picked: Serris and Neheon. Serris first - for to his dear one, information and assessment was needed. The fascinating things that SCP had obtained and held were ever a possible target, and the chaos their unleashing alone might bring…

And then Neheon. He had missed the Xaela and there was something almost easing in not just finding her again, but in having that brief rekindled relationship. It had been bittersweet that he and the Xaela had not gone on the date planned, but in its own way even that had been enough. They were not his people - none of them were his people, and they mattered as little to his goals as the ground he would bury them all under, and the ashes that would coat their graves.

He had listened, constantly - nothing he needed was their secrets so much as their confidences and oh - oh, it was so easy to find and hear them. The fears and the worries, the sadness, the heart-wrenching sorrows. The terrors and then the uplifting words that brought them all hope again - he had listened, marking who was what kind of threats.

Who wanted what things. Who felt inadequate. Who was frustrated, who could be incited to passionate arguments easily.

All of it, _**all of it**_ , he had listened to.

He slid the whetstone against the jagged edge of his blade, running it along the side with precision.

He had ruled his lands. He existed here, now, to bring another set to heel. Looking up from the sword, pale strands of almost bone-white hair fell over sanguine eyes and he paused in thought.

He would enjoy needling them, he believed. Even if he did not, he would - it was necessary to ensure that they did not recover. The wound he had inflicted, deeper than the familiar’s bloodied flesh as he’d cut into the massive she-wolf, needed to be kept fresh, cleaned, and frequently tended. 

“Like salt,” he said quietly to the air as he bent his head, resuming his work.


End file.
